


Only If For A Night

by Angryangryowl



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Night Stands, Poor Dopheld Mitaka, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 04:45:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13563102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angryangryowl/pseuds/Angryangryowl
Summary: Mitaka has an absolutely awful day at work, but happens to meet a handsome young technician who helps him feel a little better...





	Only If For A Night

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Florence and the Machine Song.
> 
> Romantic one night stands are kind of a nice thing...

‘Sector 43c, the guys in propulsion management should be able to help you out, Sir.’   
  
Mitaka eyed the technician with suspicion. He knew exactly what the tech crew thought of junior officers like him, they were quite often not quick enough to silence their giggling when he walked past the rows of benches assigned to them in the mess hall. This is the third technician that he’s asked, and the third different sector he’s been sent to. The other two have denied all knowledge of a lost report on reactor efficiency, but suggested he might try sector 17 (Sanitation) and 14 (Accounting)   
  
‘You’re sure?’   
  
‘Oh yeah, just keep heading down there, you’ll find it. Propulsion management office, can’t miss it.’   
  
The young man, whose boilersuit identifies him as ‘Ambrus, V.’ seems to be trying very hard to keep his expression even and serious.   
  
He hasn’t heard of propulsion management or sector 43, but the thought of having to deliver more bad results, or no results at all, to the General, or stars help him, Lord Ren, makes the sweat start to bead on his forehead. He tries to march down the narrow corridors like he knows exactly what he’s doing. He passes sectors 28 and 30, where the corridor abruptly ends. So where are the other thirteen?   
  
He can feel the slight tremor in his hands again, can almost feel the tightening in his throat, but wills his hands still. There’s a plan on the wall of the whole three levels taken up by engineering, the main propulsion systems, reactors, generators, and all the crew needed to keep them running. 

 

The sectors are only numbered up to thirty. Of course, any officer who had researched his assignment would no this. He had no proof that the technicians were lying to him, and even if he did, it was his own stupid fault for having to ask in the first place. 

 

There probably was no propulsion management office. Shift change was in a few minutes, according to his commpad. He should probably resign himself to his fate, a dressing-down with several mentions of his utter incompetence from Hux, or worse from Lord Ren. He gulps down the hard knot in his throat and blinks away hot tears of embarrassment.

 

His home planet suddenly seems a very long way away. His mother had been so proud when he’d graduated the academy, and was probably glad of the extra credits he sent home after his father died. If Mitaka dies, his meagre pension might feed her for a couple of standard years, and he doesn't like to think about what might happen after that. That thought, combined with rare praise from the General, and the thought of restoring order to a troubled galaxy, was enough to force Mitaka to button his uniform and report for duty each cycle. 

 

The loud, electronic buzz signalling  shift  change echoes through the corridors, and they begin to fill with troopers, officers, technicians, making their way to work or back to their quarters. He lopes in the vague direction of his quarters, thinking of finishing the last of the brandy his mother sent for his last promotion and trying to play down his failures in his report. He's too tired to maintain his usual straight-backed march through the corridors, instead mostly staying close to the wall, glaring at anyone in his way. The unfairness of it all still rose in his throat. He just wanted to do his damn job, save the galaxy from itself, and go home. The word ‘home’ snags on his mind like loose thread on a nail. He picks up his pace a little down the corridor as the tears gather, threatening to spill at the slightest provocation. Perhaps he can make the turbolift, and pull himself together before he’s seen. ‘Teeny tiny ‘Taka’ bursting into tears because the idiot technicians lied to him would be enough for nobody to ever take him seriously again.

 

He keeps his head down, counts the ribs in the durasteel of the floor, silently gratefully the quiet in the engineering corridors, is just about to press the call button when he’s nearly knocked sideways by yet another skinny idiot in a boilersuit, who drops his handful of tools with a resounding clatter.   
  
Mitaka opens his mouth to reprimand him, the man is far too slight to have hurt him much, but really, do none of these numbskulls look where they’re going? But the boy is already tripping over apologies, giggling a little hysterically, gathering up Mitaka’s commpad and folder and pressing them back into his hands.   
  
‘Sorry, Sir. Kind of clumsy, world of my own there for a second..’    
  
He's is taller than Mitaka, about the same height as the general, but somehow softer. On closer examination of his face, he’s probably closer to Mitaka’s own age, about thirty, maybe a couple of years younger. His bright auburn hair is gathered back into a decidedly non-regulation bun at the back of his head with a couple of screwdrivers tucked into it, and his eyes are a bright and startling electric blue. The pupils are unnaturally wide, and the skin around them looks raw, swollen and red. Cybernetics, old ones, Mitaka realises. He can see the mechanics in them whirr as they refocus on his face.   
  
‘Hey..’ The man is squeezing his forearm, looking suddenly concerned. ‘Hey, I’m sorry. Are you okay?’   
  
Mitaka plans to respond with something cutting, but crumbles instead, a shuddering sob escaping his mouth. He wants to curl in on himself and sink into the floor, he wants to be back in his quarters, under the sheets.   
  
‘C’mon...do you need medbay or something?’ The man has put down his remaining tools, and put his hands on Mitaka’s forearms where they are wrapped around his front.

 

He shakes his head at the mention of medbay. Sniffling like a first year cadet whilst out on assignments is an excellent way to be sent straight to reconditioning. 

 

'Well…’ The man speaks slowly now, as if he's worried what he says may get him in trouble ‘...it's shift change. Unless you've got somewhere to be, I've got some tea back in my quarters. Arkanian honey, as well!’ His eyes whirr when he gets excited, brighter when he talks quickly and his face stretches into a strangely charming smile. 'If you want to come back and calm down, I wouldn't mind the company. Kinda sucks to be like this on your own, huh?’

 

And in spite of everything, Mitaka smiles. There's caf in his room. But the idea of proper tea, and company, proves irresistible 'That might be nice, but…’ He straightens up, hands back at his sides, more appropriate for a young lieutenant ‘..I trust you won't tell anybody. If word gets back to Command…’

 

Techie grins, miming locking his bottom lip and throwing away an imaginary key. 'Safe with me. C’mon!’

 

He leads them both down a maze of service corridors, tapping a commchip that Mitaka is fairly sure isn't granted to junior technicians, against each new sliding durasteel door.

 

They only get stuck once, pressed chest to chest in a narrow maintenance corridor whilst he fumbles with a control panel in the dark. 

 

Mitaka is suddenly very aware of the press of the other man's body, the overwashed cloth of his boilersuit pressed to the front of his starched uniform jacket, hot breath close to his cheek, the slightly pathetic need for touch and warmth prickling under his ribs.

 

'M’sorry…’ He mumbles, resting a hand on Mitaka's hip and reaching behind him to tap in a code on a panel next to Mitaka's head ‘...for a new ship this thing has a few design flaws..’ 

 

His belly and chest are pressed fully to Mitaka's now, he can hear the whirr of his eyes attempting to adjust to the dark. He smells of sparksticks and boiler grease, and Mitaka wonders exactly how long it's been since he kissed someone, however horribly innapropriate this is.

 

The door releases them with pneumatic hiss, and Mitaka straightens his uniform, suppressing every urge to follow him a little closer.

 

Quarters on this deck are tiny, all comprising of a bunk, a few storage bins on the wall, and a fresher tucked in at the back. Efficient, if a little Spartan.

  
But there's a small kettle, and two chipped cups with a faded geometric design, and Techie waves him to sit on the neatly made bed whilst he makes tea. Some combination of roots, tied in a rag and left to infuse in the hot water.

 

'You can get caf from the wall units, any time you like, I know…’ Techie rambles, busying himself tidying and setting out cups 'But I drink this stuff after a rough day. Sometimes my brother will send me a bundle from an away mission.’

 

'Your brother’s in the Order?’

 

Techie half smiles, tipping his head to the side, considering 'I guess you could say that.’

 

'What about you? Any family?’

 

'Only my mother. She's back at home, some forgotten corner of the outer rim. Gemenis. I send her some money and sometimes she remembers to comm me. Or write.’ He tries to shrug like it's nothing, like the thought of his mother and home and the first sunrise of the day through the branches doesn't widen the great hollow ache in his guts.

 

He forces a polite smile and swallows, thickly. He's pathetic enough without crying again.

 

But then Techie is pressing a cup into his hands, a waft of steam, honey and a thick curl of dried citrus peel and arkanian birch bark, settling in the bottom of the worn, pale blue cup. The comfort of the gesture sends one more miserable tear rolling down his cheeks.

 

Techie settles next to him on the bed, mercifully doesn't ask, doesn't press for more information. But slips thin fingers through his own, and rests his head on his shoulder. Somewhere in the proceedings, he's loosened his bun, letting his hair fall loose to his shoulders. 

 

Mitaka opens his mouth to refuse, and then closes it again. Squeezes the rough digits, silky in places with cool pink scars. He doesn't sob. Shudders, quietly, in his uniform, wet cheek nuzzling into Techie’s messy red hair. Body heat and engine grease and  _ him.  _ He breathes it in, greedy and grateful, not quite sure what's happening, only knowing that this can't, this mustn't, end.

 

But it doesn't.

 

Techie clings equally close. He seems unsure for a moment, loosening their fingers. 

 

Mitaka resigns himself to it, prepares to straighten his uniform and make his excuses, and leave.

 

But then Techies arms are around his waist, and his cool cheek is against his own flushed, damp skin, nuzzling and soothing, lips parted, until, unthinking, they meet his own.

 

The kiss is as ungainly as everything else, more an accidental brush of one mouth on another, which they both decide they like.

 

Techie kisses him again, decisive, gentle, a warm press of his lips as Mitaka reaches for him.

 

He tastes of tea, honey sweet with a bitter edge, and he makes a low, grateful noise low in his throat as Mitaka's arms wrap around him, both clinging to everything soft and warm and human in a hard, metallic world.

 

Techie, Mitaka quickly discovers, is enthusiastic and greedy in things once coaxed. He climbs onto him, straddling his lap, a slip of pointy pink tongue licking into his mouth as he unfastens the collar of his uniform tunic.

 

His heart pounds hard in his neck, because he doesn't  _ shouldn't  _ do things like this. But consequences seem abstract and a long way away when Techie’s long fingers are caressing his neck, and a giggly, slightly shy voice is whispering next to his ear 'Can I?’

 

He nods, hands coming to rest on his slim waist as Techie fiddles with clasps and buttons, tongue poking out in concentration, eventually pushing the offending item from his shoulders with a look of triumph.

 

There's a narrow slip of pink, freckled skin visible at the undone neck of his boilersuit. He presses his nose to it as soon as techie moves away, kisses, warmth and sweat and a quickening pulse under his tongue. 

 

Techie just giggles, high and breathy, whispering 'Yes, yes…’ when Mitaka tugs, questioning, at the snaps down his front.

 

Their undershirts are the same, sleek grey, standard issue,a First Order insignia stamped over the heart.

 

Giggling turns to whimpers as Mitaka kisses, nuzzles down the long column of his throat, mouths mindlessly over his bare shoulder, stroking the sleeves down towards his wrists.

 

Arousal pools low in his belly, prickling up his spine when Techie drags two long, pale arms from his suit sleeves, a little sinewy muscle towards the shoulders.

 

He grins at him, self-deprecating, cheeks pink, the irises of his eyes quivering as they struggle to refocus 'You’re cute…’

 

And then it's his turn to blush, because he's been described as a lot of things, but he doubts that cute was ever one of them. Especially by effervescent, blushing technicians whom he is developing deeply inappropriate feelings for. 

 

He reaches up to press their lips again, the soft whimper of surprise and then pleasure from Techie making him cling a little tighter, whispering breathlessly against his mouth 'You're pretty cute yourself…’   
  
‘Come lay down with me?’ Techie whispers, low and close to his ear as though they could be overheard.

 

Techie’s bed is narrow, the wall is hard, cold durasteel (cheered with a few postcards of bands from the outer rim, Arkanis, and a propaganda poster of the young general), and Techie is teetering on the edge of the bed by the time they lay shoulder to shoulder.   
  


So really, it’s only efficient to gather him close into his arms, until their noses are pressed together, Techie’s hot, honeyed breath is on his mouth again, and there are further gentle, affectionate kisses.

 

Techie’s hands trail, languid and curious, down over his chest, warm fingertips catching slightly on the sleek fabric of his undershirt, pressing closer as Mitaka sucks gently on his bottom lip.

 

Two tangled bodies, hands stroking lower, until more snaps are undone down the front of Techie’s jumpsuit, and Techie, blushing hotly, thumbs open the fastening of his uniform trousers.

 

Mikaka whines when his fingers trail the outline of his cock, aching and oversensitive, through his underwear.

 

‘I didn’t think this would happen..’ Techie whispers against his mouth ‘I don’t know what I expected, it’s been..uh...a while…’ 

 

He smiles again, a heart-breaker of a smile, self-deprecating, blushing prettily, until Mitaka can’t help but kiss him again.   
  
‘You’re alright with this?’   
  
Techie nods, the heel of his hand stroking slow and deliberate up the length of his cock, eyes wide and flickering with want ‘Are you?’   
  
‘Mhmm…’    
  
He cuddles him close. He’s not sure how long this will last. Work, differences in shifts and ranks, may make it difficult to see each other again. But Techie is...gorgeous, comforting, the first affection he’s been shown in a very long time. He seems to like him in return.

 

So maybe this is okay. He pushes Techie’s underwear aside in return, stroking him slow and gentle as they kiss, as Techie nuzzles into the hollow of his neck. Whimpers and groans into his chest as he picks up the pace just a little, the press of his cheek hot through Mitaka's undershirts, so he feels rather than see’s the movement of his lips 'Please…’

 

They are hazy and sleepy in the afterglow, sticky and warm and too comfortable to move. Techie only reaches far enough to graze his fingers over a panel on the wall, dimming the lights.

 

'It’s a few more hours until shift change, y’know...Stay…’ He whispers, shifting just enough to be comfortable in his arms.

 

Mitaka's mind comes up with several objections to this, none of which seem to matter much right now. He hums his approval into his hair.

 

Just until.shift change. Maybe this could be alright...


End file.
